the phone a moment later and wandered out to the reception desk a little after that.
Shirley was alphabetizing the files and possibly curing cancer in her spare time. “What do you know about Senator Rivera?” I asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “He was against offering condoms to high-school kids.”
“I take it you're an advocate for contraceptives.”
She snorted, jerking her head back a little. “I'm forty-one years old. I got seven kids, five grandkids, and an ex I ain't seen since before Dion come screamin' into the world. Far as I'm concerned, they should be injectin' birth control into them kids' Tater Tots.”
I sat down, watching her work. “What else do you know about the senator?”
She shrugged. “Good-looking fella, if I recall. Got into trouble with the ladies some time—” She stopped, lowered her brows, gave me a sassy oh-no-you-don't expression. “He ain't snooping 'round you, is he?”
“No. No. He just…” Where to begin. “His son and I… Jack is … Lieutenant Rivera and I are … friends,” I finished poorly.
“His boy's a cop?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
“And you two been seeing each other?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“Well…” She scowled. “Ain't life a kicker.”
“It is.”
“So if you're hangin' with the boy, why you askin' me about the old man?”
I considered telling her that I respected her opinion, but it sounded too mushy even with the sentimentality of Christmas looming over me like a bad-tempered gargoyle. “I was just wondering about your perspective.”
She nodded. “Well, there's a sayin',” she said. “You swim in Shit Crik long enough, some of it's gonna get in your ears.”
6
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. And I'll give you a neighborhood where there ain't a white family within a five-mile radius.
—
Micky Goldenstone
T'S HIGHLY POSSIBLE that I should have stayed at work and never made the trip over to Caring Hands, especially since I was undecided about whether or not to agree to the senators proposal. But my last client left at 4:50, and I thought if I hurried and no one tried to kill me, I could see for myself whether the stylish Miguel Rivera really
was
hobnobbing with the down-on-their-luckers in one of L.A.'s high-crime areas. Besides, I had a secret shortcut across town. At 4:58 I joined a zillion cranky commuters who seemed to be in on my secret, but finally I arrived at a listing brick building on the corner of 134th and Wilmington. Leaving my Saturn in the donors' parking lot, I walked in the front door and up the railedramp. A dining area opened at the top of the incline. It was filled with a couple of dozen long tables that teemed with shuffling diners. At the far side of the room, volunteers dished meals onto paper plates.
Making my way through the crowd, I ran into a dark-haired woman whose name tag proclaimed her to be Helen. She had somehow dodged the hip spread generally associated with middle age, and I tried not to resent her for that. My efforts weren't tremendously successful, even though she was perfectly civil in a harried sort of way and didn't ask me if I was humping the senator when I inquired about his whereabouts. Pointing vaguely toward the shifting mass of humanity, she hurried off, but a moment later I spotted my quarry dishing up mashed potatoes to a bearded fellow in saggy trousers.
Miguel Rivera wore wrinkle-free blue jeans and a small-plaid button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled back from perfectly manicured hands and he wore no tie. I figured his working-man ensemble had cost more than I bring home in a week; if there's one thing to be said about the senator, it's that he knows how to dress for every occasion.
The bearded guy moved on, followed by an African American woman with a little girl. Vaguely, I could hear the senator commenting about her cornrows. But after a minute the middle-aged woman sans fat hips caught his attention and directed it toward
Shirley was alphabetizing the files and possibly curing cancer in her spare time. “What do you know about Senator Rivera?” I asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “He was against offering condoms to high-school kids.”
“I take it you're an advocate for contraceptives.”
She snorted, jerking her head back a little. “I'm forty-one years old. I got seven kids, five grandkids, and an ex I ain't seen since before Dion come screamin' into the world. Far as I'm concerned, they should be injectin' birth control into them kids' Tater Tots.”
I sat down, watching her work. “What else do you know about the senator?”
She shrugged. “Good-looking fella, if I recall. Got into trouble with the ladies some time—” She stopped, lowered her brows, gave me a sassy oh-no-you-don't expression. “He ain't snooping 'round you, is he?”
“No. No. He just…” Where to begin. “His son and I… Jack is … Lieutenant Rivera and I are … friends,” I finished poorly.
“His boy's a cop?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
“And you two been seeing each other?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“Well…” She scowled. “Ain't life a kicker.”
“It is.”
“So if you're hangin' with the boy, why you askin' me about the old man?”
I considered telling her that I respected her opinion, but it sounded too mushy even with the sentimentality of Christmas looming over me like a bad-tempered gargoyle. “I was just wondering about your perspective.”
She nodded. “Well, there's a sayin',” she said. “You swim in Shit Crik long enough, some of it's gonna get in your ears.”
6
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. And I'll give you a neighborhood where there ain't a white family within a five-mile radius.
—
Micky Goldenstone
T'S HIGHLY POSSIBLE that I should have stayed at work and never made the trip over to Caring Hands, especially since I was undecided about whether or not to agree to the senators proposal. But my last client left at 4:50, and I thought if I hurried and no one tried to kill me, I could see for myself whether the stylish Miguel Rivera really
was
hobnobbing with the down-on-their-luckers in one of L.A.'s high-crime areas. Besides, I had a secret shortcut across town. At 4:58 I joined a zillion cranky commuters who seemed to be in on my secret, but finally I arrived at a listing brick building on the corner of 134th and Wilmington. Leaving my Saturn in the donors' parking lot, I walked in the front door and up the railedramp. A dining area opened at the top of the incline. It was filled with a couple of dozen long tables that teemed with shuffling diners. At the far side of the room, volunteers dished meals onto paper plates.
Making my way through the crowd, I ran into a dark-haired woman whose name tag proclaimed her to be Helen. She had somehow dodged the hip spread generally associated with middle age, and I tried not to resent her for that. My efforts weren't tremendously successful, even though she was perfectly civil in a harried sort of way and didn't ask me if I was humping the senator when I inquired about his whereabouts. Pointing vaguely toward the shifting mass of humanity, she hurried off, but a moment later I spotted my quarry dishing up mashed potatoes to a bearded fellow in saggy trousers.
Miguel Rivera wore wrinkle-free blue jeans and a small-plaid button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled back from perfectly manicured hands and he wore no tie. I figured his working-man ensemble had cost more than I bring home in a week; if there's one thing to be said about the senator, it's that he knows how to dress for every occasion.
The bearded guy moved on, followed by an African American woman with a little girl. Vaguely, I could hear the senator commenting about her cornrows. But after a minute the middle-aged woman sans fat hips caught his attention and directed it toward
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